


let's do the space macarena

by elephantastic



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alcohol, Everybody Lives, Fix-It, M/M, Mild recreational drug use, Oral Sex, POV Multiple, but let's just be honest about what this is: mostly crack, dick piercings, i thought about changing the working title to something more serious, old marrieds being ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-08
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-12 14:25:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11738895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephantastic/pseuds/elephantastic
Summary: The five months since the destruction of the Death Star have been punishing for everyone and, sometimes, in order to keep people's fighting spirit alive, you just have to drown them in strong alcohol and loud music.Or the Rogue One crew survive Scarif, the Rebellion has a party, and Baze and Chirrut relive their glory days, blowing some tiny minds in the process.





	let's do the space macarena

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaboomslang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaboomslang/gifts).



Bodhi doesn't realise just how much he needs to blow off steam until the pressure starts to ease. Sitting at a table with Luke, a Nautolan pilot, and a mechanic in a corner of the cafeteria-turned-dancehall, he takes in the effervescent atmosphere of their ramshackle celebration with satisfaction. The five months since the destruction of the Death Star have been punishing for everyone and, sometimes, in order to keep people's fighting spirit alive, you have to drown them in strong alcohol and loud music. This party had been deemed a necessary expense, near-empty coffers be damned, and so it had been made to happen; emerging, as things are wont to do within the Alliance, from an unstoppable mix of industrial-strength duct tape and the collective will of the base's inhabitants.

Jyn flops down opposite Bodhi with a pitcher of beer and starts refilling glasses. She's looking slightly unfortunate for having cut her fringe herself and is settling into the structure of on-base life with all the grace of a belligerent bulldog. But ever since Scarif she inhabits her body in a different way, slowly shaking off her instinctual, defensive hunch, and tonight, she's as light and friendly as Bodhi's ever known her.

They're the only members of Rogue One around. K-2 haughtily declined their invitation and Cassian, freshly returned from a mission, ducked out early. He looked tired, but without the shadows in his eyes that so often make Bodhi fret. Baze and Chirrut are also absent—conspicuously so, since that afternoon Chirrut had responded to Bodhi's 'see you at the party' with a dramatic squint Bodhi chose to interpret as a wink.

However, his team's absence no longer makes Bodhi anxious. The trajectory from imperial defector to rebel hero has been a difficult one, to which he has lost a forearm and a home, but it at least served to quash mutterings about his loyalty before they had time to fully materialise and afforded him a large measure of acceptance. Even so, he's been surprised to find near immediate, easy camaraderie with the rebels, and though he still can't quite bring himself to trust it, he's started to let himself enjoy it.

To Bodhi's right, Serinti interrupts himself mid-sentence, grabbing Bodhi's arm with a muffled noise. Bodhi looks up and chokes on his mouthful of beer.

Chirrut is towing Baze into the room by their linked hands. Baze is _giggling_. But that's not the only thing to have caught Serinti's attention.

Apparently when Chirrut had said they'd be here and 'dressed to kill' he'd meant it.

Chirrut has appropriated a pair of the fitted black leggings worn by the pilots under their flightsuits and a shimmery scrap of a top that ends at his waist, the whole ensemble showing off a musculature frankly unreasonable in a man his age.

At a glance Baze looks more sensible in a simple white t-shirt tucked into dark trousers. But upon closer inspection, the trousers seem to be leather and cling to his large frame in a way that borders on indecent.

By now Serinti is not the only one staring. The Jedhans have quite the reputation on base and something tells Bodhi that no-one was expecting the blind holy man and his hulking companion to show up to the party in outfits individuals far younger and more provocative than them would have struggled to pull off. As they skirt the dancefloor to join him, Bodhi starts counting double-takes.

Chirrut stows his staff under the table, using Baze's shoulder as support to gingerly step over the bench and plop down next to Jyn.

"Hello, children."

Splutters go around the table. Everyone seems at a loss, except for Serinti, who looks like he's on the brink of an aneurysm. Bodhi surveys it all with no small amount of enjoyment. He spent a couple of months in the medbay, then in intensive physical therapy with his two compatriots: grueling recovery and an unfathomable depth of shared grief had blurred the lines of privacy between them, and he'd quickly been all but adopted. However, compulsory proximity had also allowed them to give him a merciless crash course in what Chirrut likes to call 'Temple humour', and Bodhi now finds that he's cheerily anticipating seeing it inflicted on someone else.

So he grins and serves the opening volley. "So kind of you to join us."

"We were pre-gaming on the roof," Baze says, in a tone that implies this should have been obvious to all of them.

Chirrut mutters something in Jedhan, too low for Bodhi to hear, and Baze descends into another bout of uncontrollable snickering.

Jyn narrows her eyes. "Wait, pre-gaming? Are you high?"

The couple's silent, doomed struggle to rearrange their expressions into something approximating normal is answer enough.

"Where did you even get the spice?" Luke demands.

Baze taps his nose conspiratorially. "If you can't figure that out by yourself you don't deserve the giggledust, farm boy. It's all about getting the right people to owe you fav—what is _that_?"

Baze points at Ralla's drink, a bright purple monstrosity that looks incongruous in her dirt ordinary cafeteria glass, topped off by one of the little paper umbrellas that Cassian had triumphantly dug out from the inner recesses of his parka earlier.

Ralla snorts. "I don't even know, man. It's some kind of punch Captain Achoki made. She's got like a kriffing… trough of it and she's calling it star juice. I'm pretty sure it's melting my brain out through my ears."

Baze's expression has gone covetous. "I want one. Chirrut, you want one?"

"Can I taste yours first, husband dear?"

Bodhi finds Chirrut's attempt at doe eyes vaguely alarming.

Baze flicks Chirrut's ear with a fingernail and, over Chirrut's outraged yelp, replies, "Get your own. I don't share."

Chirrut pouts, "That's patently untrue."

When all Baze presents in response is a wall of impertubable silence, he sighs dramatically. "Fine, escort me to the bar, you heartless brute."

As Chirrut steps back over the bench, the twist of his spine reveals an inky black shadow peeking out from under his waistband. Bodhi watches in satisfaction as his tablemates stare at Baze and Chirrut's retreating figures for a long, dumbstruck second, then all look back at each other with wide eyes as if to confirm the reality of it all. Bodhi didn't think Jyn was even capable of looking gleeful, but this evening is proving full of surprises.

The spell breaks and everyone starts talking at once.

"Does he have an ass tat—"

"Is Baze wearing fucking _pleather_ —"

"Isn't he a monk—"

Serinti is just making high-pitched keening noises into his hands.

"I hope I have abs that defined when I'm old and crumbly," Ralla sighs dreamily.

Bodhi clucks his tongue in derision. "You don't have abs that defined now, and you're only twenty-seven."

"Oi!" Ralla, affronted, makes a rude gesture with one of her forehead tentacles.

Before Bodhi can retaliate properly, Serinti squeaks, "They're coming back!"

They subside into sniggery silence as Baze and Chirrut retake their seats, Baze somehow carrying an entire round's worth of violently neon punch despite the two missing fingers on his left hand.

This time, Jyn is the one to pick up the gauntlet.

"So... you're both looking very nice. I like your top, Chirrut."

"Thank you, Jyn. I'm very happy with it. The fabric is exceedingly breathable."

"Considering there are more holes than actual fabric, that seems fair," Baze deadpans.

"Where did you find it? I'm assuming Guardians of the Whills don't all secretly wear mesh crop tops under their robes?" Jyn bites her lip.

Chirrut seems unfazed by her lack of tact, and shoots back, "I borrowed it from Ackbar."

"Wha—you're fucking with me. He's fucking with me, right?" Jyn stammers as the entire table erupts into delighted cackling.

Chirrut stares placidly at a spot to the right of Jyn's head. "No, no I assure you. Like most Mon Calamari, he's a total party animal."

Luke snorts so hard beer comes out of his nose. Bodhi is having trouble breathing. Baze is trying to rein in a shit-eating grin, but only succeeds in looking severely constipated.

"This comes as a bit of a surprise," Ralla chuckles.

"What the admiral in a crop top? Yes, I can imagine."

This sets off another round of indulgent giggling. Chirrut waits it out before chipping in again.

"Look, when you've lived in an active war zone for over twenty years, you learn the value of a solid sense of humour and a good party. And don't think I haven't heard the whispers." He purses his lips in distaste. "I'm not ready to play the grizzled war hero, thank you very much."

Baze huffs a laugh. "Don't think you're in any danger of that now."

"Darling, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

They weave in and out of private banter, and Bodhi watches as they effortlessly wind his group of friends around their little fingers—Chirrut bright, charming and full of wit, and Baze letting his usual, projected sullenness evaporate just enough to play the perfect straight man.

Before long, they've engaged Ralla in a cutthroat drinking game involving lethal doses of star juice, gently teased Jyn into blushing over Leia, and managed to get Serinti talking about the symbols etched into his hide. He's animated and conscientious, pointing out the different patterns, taking care to describe them all to Chirrut.

"So this one is the Sun-Dragon. It appears a lot in our ancient mythology. And see, if I vibrate my scales like this—" Bodhi gasps as the surface of Serinti's arms flutters and his tattoo takes on the illusion of life. "Would you care to feel, Chirrut?"

Chirrut reaches out his fingers and Serinti guides them to feel the shifting scales at his wrist.

"The designs are not raised, I imagine you don't use needles?"

"No, it's a special kind of dye that has to be applied over several weeks. It's considerably less painful than your process as I understand it."

"Oh, it's not so bad."

Serinti pounces, ostensibly innocent, "You have decorations too, then?"

Chirrut's smile is sunny and immediate. "Yes, would you like to see them?"

Without waiting for a reply, he stands up and presents his backside to the table. Hooking a thumb into his waistband, he pulls it down to expose the rest of his tattoo, and then lower until Bodhi exclaims, "We can see it, Chirrut! That's enough, please."

They all lean in for a better look at the column of stark, black markings. Bodhi has never seen them quite like this, and up close, the characters appear limned by dark red shadows. The colour of Chirrut's underrobe, the colour of guardianship.

"It's beautiful."

"What does it say?"

"Can't you read it, Bodhi?" Baze sounds surprised.

"I know it's Old Jedhan, but that's it"

Chirrut makes an unhappy noise. "They must've stopped teaching it in schools by the time you were ready to learn it. It's Baze's name and rank."

Their convivial bubble deflates slightly at the thought. Jedha isn't the only planet on which the Empire has practiced insidious cultural extermination.

Ralla thumps a fist on the table. "You know what? Fuck the Empire. Right now, I'm going to dance."

Serinti, Luke, and Jyn holler their approval and climb to their feet.

"You joining us, gramps?"

Chirrut scowls. "You youngsters go make fools of yourselves, we're waiting for our moment."

Ralla gives an indignant snort, and jerks her chin at Bodhi.

Bodhi declines with a shake of his head; he still tires easily and is quite happy to relax into the companionable calm now enveloping their table. He watches as Baze and Chirrut make use of the space just vacated by their drinking fellows to get comfortable. Baze straddles the bench, back to the wall, and Chirrut slumps against his chest with a disgustingly content wiggle, pulling Baze's arms up to drape around his waist.

"You feeling up for the some dancefloor narration, love?"

Baze hums, his fingers tapping out a beat on Chirrut's stomach, just below the hem of his top. He watches the ebb and flow of the dancefloor for a moment, then starts painting a remarkably detailed verbal picture of a Keshian pilot's mad gyrations. Bodhi can't resist joining in when Ralla propels a stammering Jyn right into Leia's waiting arms. Baze raises an eyebrow in challenge, prompting their descriptions to get more and more outrageous until all three of them are reduced to ugly, exhausted wheezing.

The DJ misjudges his next song, and the crowd of dancers thins. Their group returns, sweaty and victorious, Leia in tow.

"Looks like you've been having fun,” Jyn comments sardonically.

“How could we not? You were providing such quality entertainment.”

Ralla parks herself next to Chirrut, pushing his legs off the bench. “Bold words for someone who hasn't left their seat all night. Your turn to entertain, old man.”

Baze's face takes on a special kind of rascally scrunchiness. He leans over to whisper in Chirrut's ear, only getting a few words in before Chirrut starts nodding fervently. They rise from their seats with the controlled care of the truly inebriated and Baze trots off to find the DJ.

Bodhi eyes Chirrut with no small amount of suspicion. He knows by now not to trust either of them when they get that particular look. He should also know better than to ask what they're planning, since they're both masters of infuriatingly cryptic obfuscation, but he's never been one to win out against curiosity.

"What are you up to?"

Chirrut cocks his hip and declares grandly, "Just watch as we save this sorry excuse for a party."

He holds out an imperious hand just in time for Baze to spin him out onto the dancefloor as the first bars of a familiar melody ring out. When Baze and Chirrut strike the same opening pose, incredulous delight fizzes explosively through Bodhi's alcohol-addled mind.

"What is happening?" Luke's eyes are wide and disbelieving.

Ralla whips out her holopad, switching to Nautolan mid-sentence, "Gotta document this for… Fuck, what's the word?"

"Posterity, Ralla. And yes, holy shit."

Bodhi's smile feels as wide as a Jedhan horizon. He's overcome with a sense of home, with the memory of family gatherings and weddings and exasperated, childlike embarrassment as tipsy adults took to the dancefloor to relive their glory days. The image is intimately vivid—he can almost see the intricate patterns of his father's shalwar kameez and taste the tacky sweetness of one too many jalebi on his lips—and for once isn't shot through with the leaden threads of grief that have poisoned all his thoughts of Jedha since it's destruction. This kernel of nostalgia is warm and bright and buoyant, carried by the singer's extravagant vibrato and the synchronised flicks of Chirrut and Baze's wrists.

A handful of older rebels have joined the fray, falling in around Baze and Chirrut who are move-perfect. Their vigorous rendition of the choreography is much enhanced by the fact that Chirrut, for all his grace and physicality, has no sense of rhythm whatsoever and is strutting around like a demented chicken. Baze on the other hand is almost uncomfortably good. His hips are mobile in ways that are both unexpected and disturbing.

With something akin to horrified awe in his voice, Serinti slurs, "My entire world has shifted on its axis. Baze Malbus does giggledust and dances like a god."

Ralla, gives a vindicated grunt. "I told you! You were all like 'Ooh he's scary and shaggy. Oooh I jumped the lunch queue in front of that guy and I thought he was gonna tear my head off. Oooh Ralla, what's wrong with you he looks like a bantha.' Hah! I knew that was a bantha worth riding from the start!"

"But Ralla," Serinti whines, "Ralla, have you seen his thighs in those pants? He's old, Ralla. Why do I want to bite his meaty thighs?"

Luke hisses, "Shut up, _shut up_! Tomorrow Chirrut's gonna tell me to meditate and all I'll be able to think about is his ass tattoo. And his rippling abs. And the fact that I could see his nipples through his shirt. And he'll know because the Force will tell him—fuck, I'm so screwed!" He muffles his despair in Bodhi's shoulder, and Bodhi pats him on the head in bemused sympathy.

The song ends triumphantly and the watching crowd breaks into a boisterous round of applause. The dancers take their bows amongst the wolf-whistles, chests heaving and grinning like maniacs.

Baze makes a show of cracking his back, and Chirrut responds with a loud, disparaging comment about old men being out of breath and out of shape. Bodhi watches a sly smile spread over Baze's face in the split second before he bends over and shakes his head at Chirrut like the worst kind of wet dog. Chirrut makes a faux-disgusted moue, wiping his face with theatrical disgust. Satisfied, Baze dramatically flips his hair back—Bodhi could swear he hears at least two shocked gasps in his vicinity—and ties it up in a bun, the rolled-up sleeves of his t-shirt bunching around the tops of his biceps.

"Boy, his shirt is reaaaally struggling there." Ralla sounds slightly dazed

"I know. I think I just saw a hint of armpit hair, I'm about to pass out."

"Wow, Serinti."

"Fuck off, I'm having a Force epiphany. This is what enlightenment feels like."

Bodhi's eyebrows are trying to become one with his hairline, and he mildly resents Jyn for being too busy making cow eyes at Leia to share in his disgruntlement.

Baze and Chirrut weave their way back to the table.

"And that, my young friends, is how it is done." Chirrut fingerguns in Ralla's approximate direction.

"Nuh-uh, I'm not gonna let that stand. Meet me in the pit, motherfuckers." Ralla dumps her holopad on the table, and launches herself onto the dancefloor with the kind of ferocious determination Bodhi has seen her wear into actual battle.

Baze laughs, threading one arm through Chirrut's and offering the other to Serinti, who blinks up at him a couple of times before bolting upright to accept.

Bodhi takes Luke's profferred hand and tugs the girls with him.

On the dancefloor time spins out, slow and elastic. The endless flow of the music and of Achoki's death-punch dissolves Bodhi's consciousness into a succession of blurry, joy-tinted snapshots. Baze, whose shirt has mysteriously disappeared, twirls Serinti around and dips him. Ralla teaches Chirrut an off-tempo Nautolan wiggle which, despite lacking several important appendages, he takes to with commendable enthusiasm. Jyn and Leia simultaneously hipcheck Luke, who almost falls over under the force of their coordinated assault.

Despite his best efforts, Bodhi can't help but think he could get used to this. He feels the familiar wave of bone-wracking survivor's guilt rise in automatic response, but tonight the noxious feeling just sluices off. He catches Baze's eye, and lets himself get reeled back in, basking in the exhilaration of newfound kinship.

 

***

 

The music slides into a slow, syrupy beat, breaking the group's momentum. The kids jeer at the encroaching corniness and head off to the bar.

Chirrut turns to Baze and, for the first time since they took to the dancefloor, Baze has a chance to really look at him. He is flushed with drink and exertion, hair sticking up in tufts from where he's been running his sweaty hands through it, and rolling his shoulders in a way that makes the fine stretchmarks there catch the light if one only knows where to look. But it's his wide, carefree smile—the one that puts his gums on display and appears all too infrequently these days—that makes something sweet and delicate crystallise behind Baze's breastbone.

Baze has had thirty years to get used to how ridiculous Chirrut can make him feel. And yet here he is, flustered and overwhelmed because Chirrut looks happy.

He pulls Chirrut into his arms to hide the naked emotion on his face in his husband's neck, and tells himself it's because he's done his stoic facade more than enough damage for one night. They sway together, barely shifting their weight from side to side in time to the beat.

"That's the last time you're going to be able to intimidate someone into doing something for you."

Baze grumbles, "I think you're underestimating how scary I am."

"Hmmm, my big, fearsome husband. I may have been telling people things."

Baze pulls his face off Chirrut's shoulder and squints. "What kind of things?"

Chirrut leans in to rest their foreheads together. "My Baze, he's so good with his hands. He modded that repeater cannon of his by himself, you know. He used to teach advanced mechanics to the Temple acolytes, such an attentive educator. His pupils worshipped him, they called him—"

"All right, all right. That's enough."

"Count yourself lucky I haven't been telling everyone about the orphanage."

Baze groans, "Stars, you're ridiculous." After a long, laborious moment of deep thought, he adds, "Wait a second, is that why that mechanic asked me to take a look at that A-wing? And why Tyr wanted my help with the goddamn extractor fan?"

With their faces this close, Chirrut's features are more than a little blurry, but Baze knows the topography of Chirrut's smiles well enough to recognise the tender amusement playing around his mouth.

"I love you, Chirrut."

"Drinking makes you sentimental, as always, dearest." Teasing words belied by the way Baze's quiet declaration makes Chirrut eyes crinkle with pleasure.

He nuzzles Baze's cheek and they curl up into each other again.

Baze can see people admiring Chirrut, and to be fair there's a lot of him on display, all of it admirable. However, the way their gazes repeatedly snag on the black characters laddering up Chirrut's lower back is starting to aggravate him. He puts on his best glare, and slides a hand over to cover the slightly raised imprint of his name in Chirrut's skin.

Chirrut doesn't move his face from where it's tucked under Baze's jaw. "Don't glower quite so hard, you'll give yourself a headache."

Baze doesn't dignify that with a response.

"Shall we give them something worth staring at?"

Baze rumbles consideringly. Then he shifts his hand, fingers closing around Chirrut's waistband, pulling it upwards until it covers Chirrut's tattoo and then further still until the fabric goes taut over his ass.

Chirrut goes up onto his tiptoes with a shocked gasp. "Baze, what are you—"

Baze curls his lip, smug and possessive, as he sees several assortments of eyes widen and skate away sheepishly. His triumph is short-lived; Chirrut ruins his composure by latching onto Baze's neck with teeth and tongue and aggressive single-mindedness.

"Chirrut, we're in public," Baze groans.

"Tch, be quiet. You didn't seem that bothered a minute ago. And I have my own territory to mark."

Baze abandons his grip on Chirrut's waistband in favour of splaying a hand over Chirrut's lower back and dragging him closer still. Chirrut is no good at following a beat, but he is attuned to Baze in a way that can only be achieved by sparring and fucking and living side by side for the better part of three decades. And so, when Baze guides their hips into a slow grind, he moulds himself to Baze's body and moves.

Baze makes a contented noise, deep in his chest. Chirrut is warm and solid against him—fitting to all his soft places like a perfectly designed puzzle piece—and Baze can't resist slotting their thighs together to better feed the nascent arousal coiling around the base of his spine.

The DJ seems to have given in to the pervasive atmosphere of nostalgia, playing a series of slow tunes Baze only partially recognises. He hums the bits and pieces he remembers, lips pressed against Chirrut's hairline, and Chirrut marks his approval by gently digging his fingers into the back of Baze's neck.

Someone bumps into them from behind, knocking them back to the present. Baze lifts his head and catches their gaggle of youngsters looking at them with intent expressions ranging from affectionate to vaguely lustful. Mischief flickering at the corners of his eyelids, he picks up the rhythm. He's too drunk for anything fancy, but he rolls their hips together until Chirrut starts to harden against his thigh, panting giddily with the fun of it.

"Enough, enough… Baze!" Chirrut tries to disengage himself, but Baze tightens his arms around his waist and nuzzles his neck, rubbing his beard on Chirrut's skin and forcing him to lean back, laughing. Chirrut tugs half-heartedly at his hair and Baze relents.

"I don't know what you're complaining about. I'm just making sure your reputation as a decrepit, old monk is well and truly dead."

Chirrut looks unimpressed. Fast despite his inebriation, he bends down and tips Baze over his shoulder in one wobbly go.

"We've made our point, Bazey. Now I'm taking you to bed."

Baze huffs and wiggles, but quickly thinks better of it; he'd rather his face not make acquaintance with the duracrete floor.

"The table's the other way, Chirrut."

Chirrut eases around and aims for where Bodhi and his friends are yelling to help orient him.

"You old fogeys leaving us already?" Ralla greets them as they come to an unsteady stop.

"I"m gonna kick your ass, Ralla."

"From all the way down there, Bazey?"

Baze gives a perfunctory squirm but is interrupted by Chirrut landing a hearty smack on the very top of his thigh and announcing, "We have urgent matters to attend to."

Baze knows that tone, and can picture with perfect clarity the salacious eyebrow waggle that accompanies it. He grudgingly abandons the battle for the last shreds of his dignity in favour of making their exit as swift as possible. Craning his neck to peer at Bodhi from around Chirrut's hip, he grits out, "For the love of fuck, someone get him his staff."

His words are met by another wave of snickering. He frowns and starts making plans for future retaliation in his head. He's going to enjoy pranking Ralla. He hears the sounds of someone rummaging under the table, then a soft 'ow' as they bang their head on the way back up.

"Thank you, Luke," Chirrut says cheerfully. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go ravish my hu—" Baze feels the need to take drastic countermeasures and pinches Chirrut's left buttock, hard.

Chirrut jerks and yelps in feigned indignation, "Mr Malbus, how uncouth," but finally, thankfully gets moving.

Baze aims an upside-down salute behind him. "G'night kids. Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

The chorus of gently mocking voices that follows them out of the room is as much to blame as the starjuice for the warmth spreading content and diffuse through Baze's gut.

 

***

  
Baze grumbles, "All my blood is going to my head. If you want there to be any left in my dick for later you need to put me down."

"I don't know if I can. If I lean forward, I'm gonna fall over."

"Chirrut."

"Okay, okay, let me just… brace."

He manoeuvres Baze onto the floor and promptly winds an arm around his waist. "That was fun."

Baze nuzzles into Chirrut's temple, grunting his assent. He's all hands as they stagger the rest of the way to their room. The closer they get, the more demanding his grip. Chirrut feels nothing but grateful that desire still swells under both their skins like this, taking up too much space to leave any for shame or common sense. As they turn the corridor leading to their room, Baze overbalances in a way that Chirrut refuses to believe is accidental, and pins him to a wall. Before Chirrut can remark on it, his mouth is stopped by soft lips and warm tongue. He smiles into the kiss, draping his arms around Baze's neck.

The hair at Baze's nape is sodden with perspiration. Chirrut should probably feel mildly disgusted, but he has too many positive sense-memories of Baze and good, clean sweat to find it anything other than appealing. Baze's free hand comes up to cup Chirrut's throat, thumb pressing just under his jaw, tilting Chirrut's head to apply his mouth to the sensitive skin under Chirrut's ear.

Chirrut sighs happily, "You're a beast. Our door is right there. A moment of restraint and we could be doing this without our clothes on."

Baze only reply is a disapproving growl around the teeth he has now set in Chirrut's collarbone.

A frisson runs over Chirrut's skin and he pulls Baze closer, pressing his thigh up and in. Baze makes a strangled noise and drops a hand to Chirrut's hip in a gesture that could be either restraint or encouragement.

"Well, hello there," Chirrut purrs, at his most unctuous.

Baze pulls back with a snort, and lays a fond kiss on the knob of bone peeking out of Chirrut's sleeve.

"Remind me again why I'm attracted to you?"

Chirrut smirks and deliberately rocks his hips forward in a way that does enticing things to the tight muscles in his stomach.

"I intend to."

Baze looses a subvocal curse and advances, only to be stopped in his tracks by a small, surprised gasp. Chirrut was too preoccupied to hear the approaching footsteps but he sure as hell hears the mortified apologies accompanying the intruder's hasty retreat.

"Woops," Baze says, utterly insincere, as he leans back in.

Chirrut tuts, putting a hand on Baze's chest and pushing him off. Baze is drunk and off-guard enough that he stumbles back a step, allowing Chirrut to eel out of his hold and make for the door.

He waves a hand over his shoulder and adds, by way of explanation, "That's enough teasing, I want your cock in my mouth."

More cursing and a scuffle which sounds like Baze tripping over his own feet in an attempt to catch up to him. Chirrut grins, gratified to find that being honest and slightly crude about what he wants still get Baze going like nothing else.

Baze plasters himself to Chirrut's back and they duck-walk to the door, laughing as Chirrut struggles with the lockpad. They stumble inside, but before Chirrut can strike out for the bed, Baze uses his arm around Chirrut's waist to wheel him around and press him stomach-first to the door. Chirrut, thrown off balance, braces a hand against the metal panelling and grips Baze's forearm with the other.

"You're impatient tonight."

Baze grunts and pulls their hips flush together, rubbing his crotch against Chirrut's ass.

"Oh excuse me, are your pants uncomfortable?"

"They were uncomfortable when you goaded me into putting them on. Now my dick is suffocating and I have swampass."

Chirrut snorts, "How delightful, you really know how to set—"

The rest of his sentence is lost in a breathless gasp as Baze squeezes Chirrut's cock through his leggings and sinks his teeth into the side of Chirrut's neck.

"Payback, asshole."

Chirrut stutters a laugh, leaning into Baze's broad warmth at his back. Baze's free hand wanders back up Chirrut's top, tracing the soft skin under his pectoral, rubbing across one nipple, then the other, ghosting back down the line of his sternum to follow an unruly drop of sweat.

When Baze lets go of his cock, Chirrut grumbles, displeased, hips shifting back in search of some kind—any kind—of friction. But Baze presses the heel of his hand into Chirrut's lower back to stop him, running his tongue down the shell of Chirrut's ear and whispering, "Who's impatient now?"

He pushes Chirrut's leggings down, baring the curve of his ass. Eager fingers trace the swirl of Baze's name in Chirrut's skin, a thumb rubs at the top of Chirrut's crack, presses in just enough to make a point.

Chirrut's erection is still tenting his leggings in a way that's becoming frankly uncomfortable. He throws his head back over Baze's shoulder just to feel warm breath on his throat and releases Baze's wrist to shove his waistband out of the way. A contented moan slips past his lips as he closes his hand around his cock, rolling back his foreskin and thumbing at the thick moisture slicking his slit.

Baze is quiet, but his shallow, uneven breathing tells Chirrut everything he needs to know about how much Baze is enjoying the view.

Having dropped to Chirrut's waist to brace them both, Baze's hands now circle back to Chirrut's front. One pinching and abusing a nipple, the other circling Chirrut's navel like Baze has nowhere else to be. Chirrut makes a petulant noise in his throat and Baze responds by trailing his fingers, unendurably slow, down Chirrut's happy trail. They thread through the dark hair at the base of Chirrut's cock, then bypass it completely to cup Chirrut's tightening balls and roll them.

"Baze, you're killing me here. Have mercy on an old, decrepit monk."

Baze muffles a laugh in Chirrut's shoulder and archly condescends to wrap his fingers around his cock, grip tight and rough and satisfying as they stroke him together. Chirrut is drunk and doesn't feel like staving off the pleasure expanding hot and low in his belly. He lets go, sighing Baze's name as he comes messily over their entwined fingers.

He slumps further into Baze's hold, taking some of the effort of standing off his shaky legs. Baze grunts in the same way he does when he works out a kink in the innards of a particularly testy machine or brings a mistreated plant back from the brink of decay—the signal of a good job well done—and unceremoniously wipes his hand on Chirrut's leggings. Flushed with orgasm and alcohol, Chirrut can't bring himself to care.

Instead, he turns clumsily in Baze's arms and applies himself to expressing his gratitude with his tongue. Taking pity on Baze's obvious discomfort, he walks them backwards until Baze comes up against the bed-frame and sits down abruptly.

"Time to get you out of those before your dick falls off."

"Thank fuck." Baze attacks the laces on his boots with enthusiastic if uncoordinated fervour.

Chirrut kicks off his own shoes and leggings, kneels in front of Baze, and knocks Baze's hands out of the way to unfasten the buttons at his waist himself.

Baze flops back on the bed and lifts his hips, Chirrut eases both trousers and underwear down.  
  
Or at least tries to. The improbable material of Baze's trousers is… stuck.

"You gotta be fucking kidding me." Baze does not sound amused.

"Um..." Chirrut has worked both sets of fingers under Baze's waistband and is pulling as hard as he dares.

"Get these the fuck off me, Chirrut"

Chirrut would answer, but he's engaged in one of the most challenging wrestling matches of his lifetime. He's trying not to let the fact that it's against a contrary piece of fake leather faze him. He also feels like there probably is a smarter way of doing this than 'pulling really hard' but his booze-soaked brain is failing to produce any kind of alternate solution.

Baze wiggles while Chirrut tugs, and inch by inch they make progress until the tension gives all at once. Chirrut falls backwards onto his ass, getting a faceful of trousers. A beat of disgruntled silence is followed by peals of puerile laughter. Baze sits up to pull Chirrut onto his lap.

Still chuckling, Chirrut straddles Baze and pushes his hands into the loosened waves of his lover's hair. Thick and slightly damp, it winds around his fingers, drawing him in. He goes willingly. Baze's mouth opens under his, wet and sweet, and Chirrut chases the faint taste of alcohol lingering on his tongue. Skin to skin, chest to chest, he can feel the rolls on Baze's stomach and the echoes of Baze's moans vibrating through his own ribcage.

He untangles himself from Baze's hair and arms both. Pushing his lover flat on his back, he presses open-mouthed kisses down the broad expanse of Baze's chest and stomach until his tongue is coated with the sweat-salt taste of him. He can't quite help the sharp, hitching breaths that pass his lips every time they brush the puckered delineation between healthy skin and the unnatural smoothness of healing burn wounds. Judging by the way Baze's touch goes gentle and deliberate, they haven't gone unnoticed. Baze does not offer comfort, but runs his fingers over the curve of Chirrut's skull instead; finding the now ragged edges of his right earlobe and, below that, the scar where a malignant piece of Imperial shrapnel had found its mark in his neck. They've done this before—made peace with the places on the other's body where death stalked too close. Tonight is not a night for dwelling on how tenuous their luck is, nor how fragile their mortality, but they share a quiet, raw moment, relearning the variegated patterns that the latest skirmish in a lifetime of fighting has carved into them both.

Kneeling between Baze's legs, Chirrut runs his hands over the lightly-furred skin of Baze's thighs, kneads into muscles overheated by the effort of dancing. He can feel Baze unwind, increment by increment.

He runs a finger up the underside of Baze's cock, right up the centre of the double row of barbells that make delicate ridges under thin skin. Baze's stomach jumps a little at the feather-light touch, and he makes a truly delectable sound. Chirrut nestles down between Baze's thighs, sliding his shoulders underneath to spread him further.

He follows fingers with mouth, sucking gently on the head, before weaving his tongue in a lazy zigzag motion back down, stopping to circle every stud with his tongue.

Baze groans and Chirrut smiles. He likes having his big, gruff husband laid out and pliant under him, like a large cat trusting him with access to the vulnerable, secret places on its belly. Tonight has been a success in more ways than one, and Chirrut hopes that people will start properly relaxing around Baze. For all his outward sullenness, his Baze is a gregarious creature. Not soft, but keen to share, to teach, to belong. Yet another way the loss of Jedha has been devastating for him.

Chirrut runs light fingers down Baze's sides just to feel him shiver, curls a hand around the top of his thigh to hold him steady as Chirrut takes his cock deeper. Baze's likes it a little rough and Chirrut keeps the seal of his mouth tight, welcoming the tug of each barbell against his lower lip. He feels light-headed—still high on a cocktail of alcohol and endorphins—and his technique is sloppy, but Baze is as far gone as he is, groaning his approval to the ceiling. Chirrut presses a knuckle in behind Baze's balls and strokes his tongue across his frenulum. Baze's thighs tense and flex, his fingers tightening on the back of Chirrut's skull as he comes. Chirrut works him through it and swallows, the bitter taste of Baze's spend coating the back of his throat.

He pulls off and pillows his cheek on Baze's open thigh. Baze struggles to catch his breath, the last aftershocks of orgasm subsiding.

"You tired old man? There was a time you would have serenaded me."

Baze sounds both amused and vaguely horrified. "Stars, I did do that, didn't I."

"To be fair, you were very drunk then."

"I'm pretty drunk now."

Chirrut is hiding a smile in the crease of Baze's hip, so he has a split second of warning as Baze draws in a deep breath before he starts singing at the top of his lungs.

Chirrut squawks, "Baze, no!"

Baze continues, undeterred, improvising a line about his love's eyes being a pretty as kyber and twice as shiny.

Chirrut claws himself up to collapse on top of Baze, pushing the breath out of his lungs and trying to stopper Baze's mouth with his. Baze gives up in favour of stealing the laughter directly from Chirrut's lips. They kiss, sated and unhurried, until Baze unceremoniously pushes Chirrut off.

"Eugh, you taste like dick."

Chirrut whacks him in the shoulder. "And whose fault is that?"

Baze appeases him by bringing them both some water, then cajoles Chirrut into lying back down and sprawls across his chest.

Tracing lazy shapes into the skin of Baze's shoulder, Chirrut muses, "You have a lovely voice."

"So do you, my love. We should start singing together again."

"Mmm, next time we can do karaoke. If we try hard enough I'm sure we can make Serinti spontaneously combust."

Baze chuckles, loud and untroubled, and Chirrut thanks the Force, both for the sound and the fact that he's still here to hear it. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you joe for taking my 2am shitpost idea and running with it. you're a star and much enhance the flow of my creative juices. wink wonk.
> 
> thanks also greymichaela, erebones and leila for the beta and the encouragement, ilu.
> 
> finally, i think we all know what donnie yen is capable of by now, but the tattoo thing happened irl. lonicera-caprifolium did some excellent art of it [here](https://lonicera-caprifolium.tumblr.com/post/159610610698/because-of-this#notes). the post also has a link to the video. pls treat yo self and go look.


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